


An Unexpected Friend

by OverthinkingFeathers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age 2, Dragon Age II
Genre: Au first meeting, Brief mention of entire Hawke family, Gen, Hawke's gender is not specified, Shapeshifter!Anders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:19:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8109211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverthinkingFeathers/pseuds/OverthinkingFeathers
Summary: The first time Hawke interferes with the templars, it's unplanned. After that, Hawke has a plan, but it doesn't quite work. An AU first meeting.





	

It started, like most things in Hawke’s life, as an accident. 

Athenril hadn’t told them to go there, exactly, but she’d been openly suspicious of a new ship in the docks. If the Coterie had new smugglers, she wanted to be the first to know. Skulking about in the dark wasn’t really a proper job, but a debt was a debt, and Hawke always repaid in full. 

And if the sound of lapping waves pushed away the nightmare memories of an ogre’s roar and a sister’s scream, well, Hawke wouldn’t complain. 

For the first few hours, everything was normal. Ships gently bobbed in the water, and Hawke settled against a relatively smooth patch of wall halfway between the water and the Darktown stairs to keep watch. The dock master had “forgotten” to light the lanterns more than a few feet away from the ships again. Hawke didn’t belong to the group who had presumably also “forgotten” their gold in his office, but the darkness didn’t seem to care, and no one bothered them. 

Hours passed with nothing more exciting than a fish leaping in the air, and Hawke was about to declare Athenril’s suspicions unfounded when noise drifted up from the Darktown stairs. A small group, judging by the sounds, and there was definitely someone in heavy armor. A test run, or maybe a small but valuable shipment? 

As the sounds got louder, Hawke’s apprehension began to grow. The Coterie didn’t favor heavy armor, and unless Hawke had forgotten how to listen, there was only one person coming up. If they city guard ever felt going into Darktown was absolutely unavoidable, they would send out pairs. A single person in heavy armor at this time could only mean… 

The templar cleared the top stair just as Hawke made the connection. He didn’t so much as glance around, and Hawke tried to slow their breathing. If they didn’t move, didn’t make a sound, the templar would go about his way, and they could leave after. He didn’t seem interested in searching tonight. An unusual trait for a templar, but Hawke would take it.

And then Hawke understood why. A few steps behind him was a crying girl, being pulled along by a heavy chain connecting the manacles about her wrists to the templar’s sash. She was small, no more than 5, and clearly having trouble keeping up. She was obviously winded, her breaths coming out in gasps, and she was barefoot. Kirkwall’s ground was covered in sharp debris, and no footwear was dangerous. A fresh scrape welled with blood on her knee, and Hawke felt anger boiling up. 

Intervening was a bad idea, and Hawke knew that. If the templar had been dispatched in the middle of the night, surely there was a oarsman waiting to take him back. If there wasn’t, a half dozen ships were still within view, and any ship who had been in Kirkwall before knew there was no safety in the night. There would be a watch on each of them. 

Even if no one saw, this was a fully armored templar, and, judging from the lines about his eyes, one who had grown old in the order. If Hawke was seen, if Hawke failed, there would be repercussions. They couldn’t afford to face the templars’ wrath, couldn’t afford to be noticed. There were whispers about what happened to mages in this town, and Hawke had no desire to test them out. 

Besides, they didn’t know the child. They had never seen her before and probably never would again. With enough time, maybe they could convince themselves this too was a nightmare, a false memory of a time when Hawke wasn’t brave enough or strong enough to act. 

But there were whispers about what happened to mages in this town, and no one taken to the Gallows ever returned. 

It was decided then. Before Hawke could change their mind, they pushed off the wall and stalked towards the templar and the child. Ten feet before they reached the flickering light of the lanterns. Ten feet before Hawke had no chance at all. It would be simple enough to extinguish the flame, but if anything Malcolm Hawke had taught his children had stuck, it was this: Never use magic in public. 

Months of practice in the dark meant Hawke had no trouble drawing their daggers soundlessly, and their soft heeled boots didn’t make enough sound to be heard over the clanking of the templar’s armor. Hawke was closing in rapidly with no plan though, and the distraction of trying to come up with one on the fly made them careless. 

Inches away, Hawke stepped on a loose board. It creaked ominously, loudly, and Hawke froze. It was too late, however; the templar whirled about so suddenly that the child was jerked to the side. His eyes widened with surprise, then hardened, and he began to open his mouth. 

Hawke had their own rules, chief among them this: Never let an enemy call out for help. 

The first dagger was through his eye before Hawke even realized they were moving. Instinct took over, and Hawke yanked the dagger back out, ignoring the blood, and clamped a hand over the man’s mouth to muffle the gurgling as he crumpled. He was dead before he reached the ground. 

A heavily armored man makes a lot of sound falling, and Hawke gave up all hope of stealth. Swearing, they ripped the entire sash off, scooped up the unresisting child, and bolted towards Darktown. 

But no one pursued. 

Still, Hawke ran, looping through tunnels and jumping over obstacles. The reality of the situation had begun to set in, and panic clouded their judgement. Every shape seemed like an enemy; every sound was someone chasing. Their pounding heart was the footsteps of someone behind them. 

It wasn’t Hawke’s first kill, and it wasn’t their goriest, but there was a difference between darkspawn and templars. Killing darkspawn made you a hero, and most people would turn a blind eye to criminals, but killing a templar would mean death. Or, given that Hawke was a mage, worse. 

It wasn’t until the child began wailing that Hawke slowed for a few more shaking steps, then put the girl down. 

Hawke knelt down in front of her and smoothed back her hair. It had come loose over the night, but it had clearly been a braid at one point, Hawke realized. Someone cared for her. “Hey,” they said. “Hey. It’s ok. You’re all right. You’re safe.” 

That shouldn’t have been comforting. Hawke’s voice was hoarse, and their hands were trembling. They were barely calmer than the girl, and she should have been able to sense that, but her sobs slowed anyway. 

“I want to go home,” she hiccupped. “I want my papa.” 

Me too, thought Hawke wearily, me too. They pulled lock picks out of the top of their right boot and tried to will the shaking to stop. “Ok. Let’s get these cuffs off first, ok? Then you can show me where your home is.” 

______________________________________________________________________________

Hawke refined the process over time. 

The first incident was written off as a robbery gone wrong. The templar’s sash had contained a number of pouches sewn into it, including one that held coins, and he had apparently told no one that he had captured an apostate. That didn’t stop Hawke from looking over their shoulder for a month - the Knight-Commander was rumored to be ruthless - but eventually the fear faded. 

The anger never did. 

The second rescue was intentional, as was the third and fourth. Eventually it became a routine. Hawke would hear about a templar search - sometimes from Carver, who had always paid more attention to them than most, sometimes from general world of mouth, sometimes from the correspondence she found in their pouches - and hide out somewhere on their route back to the Gallows. If they came back with a mage, Hawke would intersect them, shatter a smoke flask at their feet, cut the sash, and get the kid out of there. Then once they were hidden a safe distance away, Hawke would get the manacles off, read the correspondence, and burn everything but the gold. That would go to the apostate and their family, along with instructions to leave Kirkwall at once. Hawke had managed to not kill any templars after the first, hoping that would lessen the Knight-Commander’s wrath. 

That wasn’t to say it always went perfectly. The third templar had held the chain in his hand, though the surprise of the attack loosened his grip. The fourth hid metal about her sash, chipping Hawke’s knife when they tried to cut through it. That had ended up with far more grappling than Hawke was comfortable with, and they had to buy a far too expensive enchant to burn through any future bands. After that, one set of templars tried pairing up but couldn’t seem to coordinate well enough for it to matter. 

This one was late. 

Hawke had expected them to be done by now. Athenril had mentioned the raid in the Alienage that morning - steer clear, Hawke; I want you to rejoin us, not get caught - and word in the Lowtown markets was that they’d arrived two hours back. Hawke had bought a sandwich to justify their presence, then retreated to a nearby alley. Some precariously stacked crates afforded them enough height to jump onto the roof of a nearby building, and from there, they had a good view of the streets below. 

The templar should have come back up that street by now, and the fact that they hadn’t was making Hawke anxious. When Leandra was nervous, she sang, her voice clear and tuned through years of tutors. Hawke hadn’t inherited her voice, and so they hummed. It was an old tune about mabari protecting the livestock, something ridiculously Ferelden. 

Whether it was that or the smell of their rapidly cooling sandwich that attracted the cat, Hawke couldn’t say. All they knew was that suddenly an orange cat was a few feet away from them, eyeing them suspiciously. Instinctively, Hawke extended a hand and cooed, which was apparently not the right way to gain this cat’s trust. The cat pointedly sniffed and sat down out of reach, looking mildly indignant. Hawke laughed. 

“Is it the dog smell? Mother says I’ll never find someone respectable to love me if I smell like dog.” They glanced back at the street. “I didn’t really think that applied to cats though.” 

That got no response. The cat, Hawke decided, was probably someone’s pet. His orange fur was long, and while it wasn’t exactly clean, it wasn’t knotted either. His eyes were a shockingly bright blue, a color Hawke had never seen in cats and rarely in humans. Even if he had been born to be a farm cat, someone likely would have taken him in as a kitten if only because of his unique appearance. He was a little on the thin side, but times were hard. 

Hawke wasn’t going to finish their sandwich. They had really only picked at it, and while the cat was a welcome distraction, they were still too on edge to really eat. The cat, on the other hand, looked like he could use a meal. Hawke put the food on the ground by the cat, who hesitated but didn’t come any closer. 

“I’m not going to bite, you know,” Hawke said. “I don’t think it will either. I’m not entirely sure what it’s made of, but it seems to be edible.” 

The cat raised one paw, considered it, and put the paw back down. 

Hawke sighed. They weren’t willing to give up their vantage point, but it seemed like a waste to just let the sandwich sit on the roof. No one was looking. With a tiny push of force magic, Hawke sent the sandwich skidding to the cat’s feet. Thankfully, the cat didn’t panic and run, but he did stare hard at them. Hawke felt strangely defensive. 

“Yes, yes, I know. Father is in the afterlife right now wondering where he went wrong. But neither of us were going to move, no one was watching, and I’m pretty sure a cat isn’t going to turn me in.” 

The cat watched them a moment longer, then dropped his head and began to delicately eat. Hawke turned their attention back to the street, and they sat in silence for a few minutes. Still no templar. 

“So what do you think, kitty?” Hawke said, mostly talking out loud for the comfort of it. “Are the templars late because they’re incompetent, or because they’re planning something?” 

The cat, still eating, gave an automatic sort of hiss when they said templars. Hawke was beginning to like him.

Then, as if summoned, the streets began to churn with commotion as a heavily armored figure pushed his way through the crowds. Trailing behind him, obviously defiant, was a young elven man. He was not a child, and Hawke wondered if that would make it easier or harder. They watched for a few moments, studying the body language of the templar. He was alert but not overtly suspicious, he was alone, and he wasn’t keeping as good of an eye on the mage as he should have been. Hawke felt a little bit of anxiety fade. 

“Alright, kitty,” they said, pulling their weathered cloak up. “It’s showtime.” 

They leapt nimbly down the boxes and began to thread their way through the crowd. In Lowtown, Ferelden refugees were everywhere, and no one wanted to be near them for long, afraid they were passing some sort of disease. Hawke was able to move through easily, staying on the outskirts of a group talking about the Blight. Once they were drawing close to the templar, Hawke palmed the smoke flask with one hand and a dagger with the other. It should have been easy: shatter, cut, run, hide. 

But the elven man was rightfully angry, and he had planted his feet in the middle of the road, forcing the templar to stop too. Hawke was too close to alter their trajectory; either they finished the attempt, or they swerved and lost the opportunity. They likely wouldn’t get another one. 

The templar had turned to face the elf, hand at his belt, and Hawke couldn’t see if he had drawn a weapon. If he had, things could get bad fast, but the elf would be in even more danger if Hawke didn’t do anything. They bumped into the templar as if by accident, simultaneously sliding the knife under the sash and dropping the flask. Smoke billowed around them, people began shouting, and Hawke pulled the dagger back viciously, severing the sash. 

The smoke was too dense for them to see, but Hawke felt the sash jerk away. The man must have realized what was happening and run. It wasn’t the normal reaction - the children were normally too stunned by the proceedings to move - and Hawke hesitated for a second, thrown off plan. 

That second was a mistake. The templar swung around and struck out blindly, aiming towards where the pull had been. Hawke felt a blade punch through their clothing and into their abdomen, flooding their senses with pain. Without considering it, they kicked out, making contact with one of the templar’s legs. Their boots were no match for plate, and it likely hurt Hawke more than the templar, but he hadn’t been expecting it. Hawke yanked backwards, seeing stars as the knife pulled from their skin with a sickening squelch, and ran. 

The templar was too slow to pursue, torn between chasing whoever had attacked him and the apostate he had been bringing in. By the time he had cleared the smoke, Hawke had ducked down an alley, thankful both for the people of Kirkwall’s general unwillingness to get involved and the twisting streets that made up Lowtown. They feverently hoped the elven man had been able to get away as well, but there was no way to know now.

Hawke staggered down two more side streets and into another alley, arm pressed tight against the wound in hopes of stopping the bleeding enough to leave no trail. They would have liked to go further, make sure no one could find them, but there were no sounds behind them. Continuing was likely more dangerous in this state. The adrenaline had worn off quicker than Hawke had ever experienced before, and behind the pain they felt exceedingly weak and cut off from the world. It was like all of their senses had been dimmed. Hawke wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it probably wasn’t good. 

They took their arm off the wound long enough to look and immediately regretted it. There was a lot of blood. Hawke knew no healing; Malcolm had refused to teach his children that skill, claiming that templars were most suspicious of families with unreasonably good health and that people couldn’t be trusted to let someone hurt. He had died because of it, sickness taking away his ability to breathe even as everyone begged him to heal himself. Hawke and Bethany had secretly tried for hours to master the skill, with no results. Hawke had no real desire to bleed out in a back alley to avoid suspicion, but there wasn’t much they could do about it either. 

Light footsteps echoed down the alley, and Hawke brandished their dagger in that direction. They couldn’t remember if they had ever put it away. Their attention began to drift, trying to solve that particular mystery, and Hawke had to force themselves to concentrate on the footsteps. 

Then the orange cat rounded the corner, and Hawke choked back a laugh. It wasn’t funny, not really, but it was fitting. The cat had followed them, presumably for more food, and instead Hawke was going to die and let him down just like everyone else. Couldn’t even live up to a cat’s expectations. What a legacy. The laughter bubbled up, and then Hawke was laughing and crying at the same time, and Maker, this was undignified, but they couldn’t stop. 

Suddenly, the cat looked like a man, and that was far less funny. Hawke blinked, unsure of exactly when or how this had happened, Their vision was blacking out at the edges. It was probably just a hallucination, they told themselves, but he smelled like elfroot, and when he gently moved Hawke’s arm away, he felt solid. 

“Let me see,” he said, quiet enough that Hawke could barely hear, but that sounded real too. They wanted to ask him a lot of questions, but they also wanted to keep standing, and Hawke only had enough energy to do one right now. The man frowned, then held his hands inches away from the wound. Magic flowed from him, and Hawke gasped. The healing wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it was unfamiliar, like water flowing through the cut, and all of Hawke’s senses went from dulled to painfully sharp all at once. 

The man stopped maybe 10 seconds later and stepped back, looking suddenly tired. The wound was closed and mostly healed, though old blood still covered the area. Hawke gaped, senses slowly fading back to normal. 

“It’s the best I could do,” the man said, offering Hawke a relatively clean rag. “The blade must have been coated with magebane. Nasty stuff, but it’s standard issue for templars, so no surprise there.” He paused and considered Hawke, who hadn’t moved. “The cloth is so you can clean up.” 

Hawke studied him instead. His hair was more of a reddish blonde in human form, half pulled back, and his eyes were brown rather than blue. He was tired, obviously by more than just this unexpected healing, and Hawke noticed ink smudges and herb stains intermingled with a few freckles on his hands. His coat was blue, though a darker variant, and featured more than a few feathers. 

Hawke wrestled down the urge to ask him about the feathers. They meant to say thank you, but what came out was, “You were a cat.” 

He laughed, momentarily brightening, and Hawke felt a small flutter in their stomach. Undoubtedly a side effect of being stabbed, they told themselves, and suddenly concentrated on getting all the blood off. “Something like that. It’s... complicated.” 

That sounded like an understatement, but Hawke didn’t press. “Thank you,” they said. “I don’t really understand, but I owe you” 

“You should be careful about what you offer. I might take you up on it.” He looked thoughtful. “Is this something you do often?” 

“Owe people who save my life, or get stabbed, or talk to cat people, or…?” 

Another soft laugh, another stomach flip. “Take on the templars.” 

“Oh.” Hawke toed the ground self consciously. It wasn’t something they had shared with anyone. Their family would be horrified, Aveline would probably feel obligated to arrest them, and Varric would tell everyone the moment he found out. After that, there was no one else left, and so Hawke had kept it a secret. “Not exactly. It’s the first time I’ve done this badly though.” 

“I thought that might be the case.” Hesitation clouded his features for a moment, and then he seemed to make some sort of decision. “I need help breaking a friend out of the Gallows. How does that sound? A favor for a favor?” 

“You want to break into the Gallows?” Hawke was horrified and fascinated. They had considered anyone kept within the Gallows to be a lost cause; it was too well guarded, too isolated to make an attempt on. Being caught breaking in might be worse than dying in an alley. If this man wanted stage an escape, he was more dedicated than anyone they had met before. 

“Not exactly. He should be able to sneak away for long enough for us to meet. It’s not a suicide mission.” He glanced at the sky, which was slowly beginning to darken. “Look, I need to get back to my clinic. If you decide to help, meet me there. Look for the lit lantern in Darktown. If not, I understand.” 

He had already started to walk away when Hawke managed to formulate a response. “Wait! Yes! I mean, I’ll help.” They had rules about templar thwarting plans, and not giving their name was one of them. If they told someone their name, they risked that person telling someone else, and them saying something, and so on and so forth until an army of templars showed up at their door. But this wasn’t normal. “I’m Hawke.” 

He gave them a genuine smile, and Hawke was quite sure being stabbed had nothing to do with that feeling. “Anders. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’ll see you at my clinic later then? I’d say you should walk with me, but you should probably change into clothes that don’t have slashes through them. It draws the eye.” 

Hawke could only nod, which seemed to be all the response he needed. He grinned again and then there was only an orange cat, padding out to the streets.


End file.
